


dumb pining baking boyfriends

by Blepbean



Category: Avatar: Legend of Korra
Genre: Baking, First Kiss, Fluff, Just... pure fluff, M/M, Mako likes to bake to get his mind off things, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon, also they're baking japanese milk bread, author didnt proofread or edit.. again, dumb pining boys, they're so soft... i love them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:34:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27077317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blepbean/pseuds/Blepbean
Summary: After Kuvira destroyed Republic city, Mako is stuck with Wu while he heals. He often bakes to relief his stress, Wu helps him bake and realises how much he's been loving this man without him knowing.There’s something soft about Wu that Mako can’t quiet point out, maybe it’s the brown hair is turning into lazy curls like clouds in the weekend sky, or how the sunlight is creating sharp shadows on his face, against his brown skin, soft from all the skincare products, like polished clay.His palms open, pale, soft like sands on the beach. If he could, Mako would trace the lines on his open palm, see where it leads, memorise the touch, the softness of it.
Relationships: Mako/Prince Wu (Avatar)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 142





	dumb pining baking boyfriends

**Author's Note:**

> i finished reading the comic bloom which is dumb boyfriend and baking in a seaside town and i just wanted mako and wu to bake... i love them so much omg 
> 
> kudos, comments and feedback is appreciated

Mako is stuck in Wu’s hotel room (which is somehow not destroyed from Kuvira’s attack), his arm is still healing, in a sling that he’s still slowly getting used to. Most of the apartment is full of gold and knicknacks, of priceless antiques that Wu always insists to be cleaned every single week. But in the kitchen, there’s this warmth that floods you when you walk in.

It reminds him of his parent’s kitchen, little bits and pieces of it anyways. How it looks like it’s from a whimsical fantasy world full of magic and sprawling forests, in Wu’s kitchen (that he never uses) it’s through the white flowery ceramic jars in beautiful mahogany cabinets, books and photo frames with a touch of warm nostalgia.

From the flowing see-through white curtains on the open windows, to the sunlight that bathes everything in a soft light. The floor beneath him turns into a warm wooden floor, he stares at the bench, his other hand fixing his white singlet. Flour still sits there from last night, phantom memories of him rolling and kneading and heating up the dough in his white singlet and pants from last night that he’s still wearing.

Wu wasn’t there, he was off somewhere doing democratic duties.

His fingers glide over the flour, tracing lines on the flour. It’s something that he found himself doing, baking to pass the time. He remembers staring at his mum kneading the dough carefully in the kitchen, trying to get on his toes to see her press the dough with the heel of her palm. There was something magical about the way she did it, full of concentration but also spacing off somewhere else while she hums with a soft smile on her face.

He tried to bake from the flour and the water that they found in the street, trying to hum, to knead the dough, warm up his hands and shape it into something else, a loaf of bread so  _ soft,  _ bring back that feeling when he chewed on the bread that melted in his tongue. But it didn’t work, it ended up tasting bitter and Bolin would cry.

Now here he is, many years later, alive and well with a burned arm that should heal. He takes the jars from the cupboards, the bowls, the stove. He remembers this recipe by heart as he puts flour into the pan then pouring milk, making sure to mix out any lumps, careful not to hurt his arm in a sling.

It’s like his body moves on his own without meaning to, because as soon as the roux is done he’s already mixing in the yeast and the sugars and flours together, humming something that his mother once did. 

“What are you doing?”   
  


He almost drops the bowl in his hands, ever since Mako has ‘taken it easy’ everything has been making him jump.

“Baking,” he says, wiping the flour from his cheeks, but only adding more to it, “I thought you had meetings?”

“I cleared them out,” he says, taking an apron as it wrinkles his green hoodie, the darker green sweatpants don't cover his ankles, “I’m tired, can I help?

He would’ve said no, told him to go and do his own thing a while go. But he’s slowly warming up to Wu, knowing his quirks and what makes him tick, seeing him smile so widely that his cheeks must hurt. But now, seeing him here in the kitchen with the sunlight turning his eyes that usually looks like emeralds but more into vast forests, of sprawling thick jungles that Bolin has read as a child.

There’s something soft about Wu that Mako can’t quiet point out, maybe it’s the brown hair is turning into lazy curls like clouds in the weekend sky, or how the sunlight is creating sharp shadows on his face, against his brown skin, soft from all the skincare products, like polished clay.

His palms open, pale, soft like sands on the beach. If he could, Mako would trace the lines on his open palm, see where it leads, memorise the touch, the softness of it.

Smoke rises from the pan and he realises that he forgot to turn off the stove.

“Spirits,” he says, thankful that Wu can’t see the red on his cheeks. He quickly turns it off and moves the pan away, “can you mix the flour for me, make a well in the centre and add egg, cream, butter, butter and the thing next to it.”

Wu does what he’s told, he thought that he would accidentally mess this up but when he puts the pan in the sink he watches him slowly crack the egg, his shoulders relaxed, not taking the awkward position that Bolin usually does when they try to bake. Mako stops in his tracks and he just stares at Wu.

He looks so content, head down, a soft smile on his face.

“Do you bake?” Mako says, he stands beside him, flouring the bench.

“I don’t but… I sometimes sneaked into the kitchen to see the staff cook and sometimes bake,” he laughs like he’s already living in the moment, “and I remember their techniques and it always smelled of like flour,” he pauses, rolling up the sleeves of his hoodie, face bright like the sun, “if I wasn’t a king, I think I would be a baker.”

A baker. Yeah. That would fit Wu. He could see him opening up his baking shop in Republic city, the shop full of warmth, like coming back to your childhood home full of flowers and plants, of nostalgia that fills up the rooms through the photos hanging up on the walls. He can see him, behind the counter with the sweetest smile, or making the bread itself with his sleeves rolled up, gritting his teeth, humming a song on the radio.

“I would probably be a baker as well,” he says. Wu giggles, and it’s sweet, soft and simple. He wants to hear it more often, maybe in another life they both run the bakery, getting used to each other and how they move, laughing and smiling in the kitchen and stealing glances across the room.

“Maybe we can both work in the bakery,” Wu says, he stops mixing the flour, turning around, “then we can both--”

They both realise that they entered each other’s space, Wu on Mako’s chest. There’s silence between them and Mako steals the bowl away from him, putting it on the bench. The silence, it’s not awkward or heavy, it’s something entirely on its own. They breath in each other’s air, Wu looks at him.

And Mako kisses him before he could regret it. He tastes of summer fields, of sweet strawberries that his mother puts into the bread, of honey as well, and he can imagine this kiss in a plain field of grass in the summer, but perhaps nowhere as well. But it’s too soft, like a gentle breath, just lips brushing against each other, too hesitant to dive into the unknown.

Mako is terrified, he quickly pulls away. He had ruined what they had.

“Wu I’m so sorry--”

His arm brushes gently against his Wu’s and they’re kissing again.

And it’s not like just a gentle brush of lips, it’s the pull of bodies coming together like they’ve been away for a long time, coming back to a familiar place, perhaps in the bakery. Wu smiles into the kiss and he interlocks hands with Mako’s, a touch that grounds the both of them, of the taste of summer but also the smell of the forests.

Mako never thought he would get this.

When they pull away, Mako rests his head onto Wu’s shoulder, laughing a little.

“What?” Wu asks.

“I never thought I would get this,” he whispers, “we’re both covered in flour by the way.”   
  
Two hours later they’re eating milk bread in the kitchen, and Mako finds himself looking at Wu more, thinking of that alternate life of them in a bakery. 


End file.
